


What Comes of It (Call It Due)

by Anonymous



Category: Monty Python's Flying Circus
Genre: Choking, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Face Slapping, Gallows Humor, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Minor Violence, Power Imbalance, Psychopaths In Love, Service Submission, Sexual Repression, Switching, Unhealthy Relationships, crack premise taken seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-26
Updated: 2021-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-29 03:13:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30149868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: If Eideard will not speak, Iain will see that Eideard’s body does so in his stead.
Relationships: Betrothed Scotsman/A Scotsman on a Horse (MPFC)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3
Collections: Kink Lucky Dip





	What Comes of It (Call It Due)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saturni_stellis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saturni_stellis/gifts).



It is an easy thing to've overlooked. Wind whipping against his face, horseflesh heaving beneath him — his blood, hot and heavy as the thrill of it all courses through him. Eideard's back is pressed to Iain's front, a warm and much-welcomed weight, the soft touch of his hair grazes against Iain's cheek with each bounce the saddle gives. He is blinded by achievement, relishing in how it settles across his shoulders, that they are nearly arrived to Iain's cottage when sense dawns upon him.

Odd for Eideard to be silent and still but for the reactionary movement the horse forces him into. The unsettling queerness of his docility.

Iain presses the heels of his boots into the beast's sides, slowing them to an amble. "What're you playing at?" Silence is given in answer. Iain looks beyond the blinding gratification of his victory to realize that what he thought to be a decisive coup is likely much less so. A mere battle won, the loss of which Eideard has moved on from, galvanized as he prepares for the war ahead.

There is little for Iain to do but laugh, and so laugh he does. Eideard's pettiness has always served to amuse as much as it enrages Iain so. "You think to play the martyr?" He brings his hand up from where it had settled on Eideard's hip during the ride, placing it on Eideard’s front. He dips his fingers beneath the ridiculous pomp of Eideard's jabot to get at the shirt below, and then further still, until he feels the warm skin of Eideard's chest and the soft spread of hair there. "Aye, and me the beast. Well."

Iain sets his mouth to more productive pursuits. He attacks the flesh at Eideard's neck, marking him. He can feel it as Eideard's pulse quickens, his skin becoming hot with the blood Iain's lips and tongue and teeth have called forth to surface. If Eideard will not speak, Iain will see that Eideard’s body does so in his stead.

His cottage lies hidden in a copse not visible from the road but to those who know where to seek. The horse clears it easily, remembering the way. Iain squeezes his thighs to order it to a stop and balances his hands on Eideard's shoulders as he rises to stand in the saddle, feet firm on the stirrups. Leaning forward, he presses his passion into Eideard's back, staring down at Eideard from where he hovers above. His fingers trace the cut of Eideard's jaw, tenderly, as a lover might, yet it is force that has Eideard's chin tipping up, their gazes catching.

"Shall I have you here?" he asks, looking across the land. The rains of winter have since passed, and the grass at the front of his cottage is lush and tall, a fine bed; Iain has certainly done better things in much worse a space. "Where God and any passing stranger might stand as witness?"

Though sight is not so easy a thing from the road, sound carries in so quiet a section of the valley. Eideard is not so sheltered by his rich and lofty position as not to know it. Panic flares in his eyes.

A reaction at last.

"Oh?" Iain dips his thumb past the soft seal of Eideard's lips, tracing along the sharp line of his teeth. "So the terror's in the possibility of being known, then, and not the act itself?" He presses down on the center of Eideard's tongue, grinning. "That's good to know." He removes his hand from Eideard's mouth and twists, stepping down from the horse.

Even atop the beast, Eideard is slight enough that Iain's height has him only a head or so lower. He settles his hand high on Eideard's thigh and asks, "You would deny me? Is that the game?"

He is met with Eideard's continued silence. "Good," Iain says. "I certainly look forward to seeing you try."

Iain knots his fingers into Eideard's belt, pulling him from the horse. He watches dispassionately as Eideard groans and rolls onto his back, eyes staring past Iain to the sky, sightless and disoriented, hat lost somewhere in the fall amongst the grass at his back. Iain hefts Eideard over his shoulder and carries him through the door of the cottage, unlocked in Iain’s haste to depart that morning.

Eideard makes a fine sight on Iain's bed, the rough-hewn fabric of the blankets a contrast to the cut of his wedding suit. "Take it off." Iain tosses his hat to the floor, settling his hands at his belt. "We'll see to it that you aren't denied a wedding night."

It's maddening, the deferential way in which Eideard sets to unhooking his broach, shedding his clan's tartan before seeing to the rest of his outfit. Iain watches with hungry eyes as the length of Eideard is revealed until there's nothing to hide him from Iain's gaze.

Iain undoes his breacan and steps closer to the bed, draping it across Eideard's bare form. "What would those high-born friends of yours say,” he hums, “if they could see you here?" He pushes until Eideard is on his back and settles himself along Eideard’s side, fingers tracing lightly along his skin. "It's too bad that my kin would just as surely see you dead, really; our colours suit you well."

Eideard stares fixedly at the ceiling, breathing even. A snarl curls Iain's lip and he digs his fingers into the soft flesh of Eideard's middle, grinning when lines summon to the corners of Eideard's eyes, his mouth thinning to hold back whatever grimace wants to make home there. "Undress me," Iain commands. "If you're so keen to play prisoner, I will see you find use as one."

It's close to being the right thing to say. Eideard's eyes snap to his, furious. A long moment hangs between them before Eideard breaks, dutiful as his fingers attend to Iain's modest suit in much the same manner that Eideard settled his own.

Moreso even than in their clothes, the difference in their stations becomes undeniable once Iain is left as naked as Eideard, made manifest in the contrast of their bodies. Iain's skin bears marks of all the battles and sins of his life, stretched taut over his bones from many a night spent without food to nourish him. Eideard exists unblemished and soft. The greatest adversity encroached upon him in his otherwise gilded life undoubtedly occurring here and now, at Iain’s hand.

"I would have you kiss me," Iain says, idly, and then remits Eideard the trouble of whatever considerations need running through his mind in deference to if acquiesce or resistance is the lesser evil in this dance of theirs. He grabs hold of Eideard's throat, tight and high enough that the man’s jaw has little choice but to open, and makes use of Eideard's lips as he sees fit.

Eideard does not kiss him back, but that is of no matter.

Iain shifts and settles atop of him, heavy; he smiles into their kiss as a pained wheeze rattles Eideard's chest. He devotes himself to devouring Eideard as he sees fit, manipulating the angle of their necks, oscillating their kisses between gentle and violent things, not minding any discomfort he might feel by wont of knowing that for Eideard it is worse still.

Eventually he pulls back to marvel at the burn staining Eideard’s mouth and chin, Iain's beard much too rough for the soft, smooth skin of Eideard's jaw. There is a vial of oil that he keeps near the bed for hours such as this, and he reaches for it, slicking his hand before then giving the length of himself much the same treatment.

"I dream of this," he says, eyes locked onto Eideard's face, searching for any semblance of reaction. "I take this oil as I am now, and see to myself with you in mind. Tell me, sir, what plan might you’ve had for tonight with that bride of yours, if not to bring forth the likes of me into your mind’s eye, so that you might have any chance of seeking satisfaction?” He moves his hand between Eideard's thighs as he speaks. Eideard's breathing halts in his throat, chest stilling as his eyes flutter closed, that silent tongue darting out to lick across his lips as Iain teases fingers along the rim of him.

It's — Eideard is exquisite, and Iain is but a man of flesh and blood. He has spent time enough indulging Eideard's games. He resolves to see to that which brings about his own pleasure, and nevermind Eideard's insistence in denying himself the same.

He takes Eideard by the shoulder and rolls him so that he rests on his stomach and gets his well-slicked cock inside Eideard's body without much more thought for it, pressing until his hips rest flush to the firm swell of Eideard's behind.

"So welcoming," Iain speaks directly into Eideard's ear, his hair falling over both their faces, shadowing them from the light sneaking in from Iain's shuttered windows. "Is it as you dreamed?"

Again he looks to Eideard's body for answers, the soft relent of his muscles as Iain lays into him, the quickening of his breathing, his palms spread flat on the bed with clear effort exerted to keep them such. Iain summons the resolve to pull back, gripping Eideard by the hips and hamming down into him, grunting. Eideard’s back hollows, chest pushing down into the bed, hips canted upwards, all to yield to the storm of Iain's thrusts.

Release dawns upon the horizon, and Iain refuses to reach his before Eideard’s own. He tilts onto an elbow, pulling Eideard with him so that they're laying on their sides, and reaches between Eideard’s legs.

"You absolute shite!" Iain shouts, his hand cradling the cock hanging limp between Eideard's thighs.

"Brute." Eideard's voice is as stayed as it might be in the midst of a man so much larger using him to an end. "Savage."

Rage swells within Iain, blazing hot. "Is your pettiness so grand?" he spits. "If there is a man more capable of so thoroughly controlling his own desirous nature than you, Eideard, I am sure he has not yet walked this earth!"

He pulls free of the pleasure of Eideard’s body and uses his strength to position Eideard on his back, glaring down into the man's impassive face. He finds Eideard’s expression to be one of challenge. Satisfied, as if Eideard thinks he has won.

Iain will show him better.

"I have come about this all wrong," he decides. His hands press Eideard's thighs to the bed, pinning the lower portion of his body. "Forgive me."

He takes Eideard into his mouth, the whole of him fitting in his softened state. Iain sucks, licks, bites, mindful not to settle into a rhythm before moving on from one to the next. Eideard draws in a harsh breath, convulsing hard. His hands surge down, pushing at Iain's head. Iain does not allow himself to relent, weathering the assault of thumps and scratches that Eideard levels against his shoulders, until in no time at all the length of him is too much to be contained by Iain's mouth. He pulls back to service Eideard properly, mouth open wide to suck, tongue curling around the bend.

He looks up to survey his work. An ugly flush stains Eideard's cheeks and neck and chest as he stares down at him with what Iain likes to imagine is awe.

Desire and fury seem to be battling within the dark cast of Eideard's eyes. Iain grins.

It is possible that Ian’s release won't feel as satisfying as the triumph that courses through him now, though there's something to be said to seeing a task to its inevitable conclusion.

Unlike Eideard, Iain finds himself welcome to being proved wrong in this instance.

To such end, he rises onto his knees, climbing onto Eideard's lap. He takes the spoils of his labour into hand, holding Eideard's cock steady as he sits onto it.

Iain's world narrows down to an instance of shock before pain bleeds in, his cheek stinging. He stares at Eideard, dumbfounded. He returns Eideard's volley, striking Eideard across his face. A coward's move, yes, and thus deserving of the identical retaliation. The sound of it echoes sharp across the room.

They pant at one another, gasps filling space carved by the echoes of their violence. Iain shakes his head, attempting to get his hair from his eyes. "You cannot be serious."

Eideard's shoulder rises from the bed. Iain flinches, body clenching around Eideard's length.

It elicits a moan from Eideard. Iain can tell instantly it is from more than the sensation of Iain’s body manipulating him. There is a moment where Eideard’s mouth curves, pulling toward his ear before it flattens out just as quickly, the pout of his lips parted as he continues to breathe heavily from his mouth. It reminds Iain as to his purpose, and he steels himself not to be so distracted by Eideard's childish tactics.

"Thought you weren't going to give me the satisfaction," Iain says as he begins to roll his hips. His cock stands firm, jutting out, tapping from Eideard’s belly and his own. It is perhaps harder than it was before, blood burning hotter for Eideard's petty display of violence. "Should've known better than to trust you to stand to principle, though, shouldn't I?"

"Perhaps I've changed my mind."

It gives Iain reason to laugh. "Aye?" He gets his knees beneath him and starts to move with a proper rhythm, working himself atop Eideard's cock. He grabs Eideard's hands, placing them on his chest and relishing as Eideard squeezes the muscle there. It is at once too much and not enough. Keeping one above his heart, the other he slides down, until his cock is held in Eideard's grip.

"I am sure it will be no strain to stay your release." The feel of Eideard’s strokes cause his voice to waiver; Iain does not bother to mask it, not one to be as ridiculous as Eideard. "Aye, even schoolboys manage it; such restraint should be nothing to a man of your stature. Please, sir, be so kind as to let me seek my end, and then I will leave you be."

Eideard makes a noise as if he's been stabbed.

"Please, Lord Douglas," and although Iain isn't very good at keeping the taunt from his tone, the words themselves seem to do enough. Eideard's hand slides from where it's been clutching the meat of Iain's chest, fingers wrapping around his throat. Iain raises both of his own hands to clutch at them, urging Eideard to tighten his grip. "Please," he chokes out, gasping. "I'm close."

"Christ." Eideard's hand tightens around Iain's cock to match the grip he has on Iain’s throat, thumb digging past the foreskin to manipulate the head. "Christ."

His grip tightens more still. Iain's vision blurs around the edges from the exquisite agony of it all. Eideard spends himself in that moment, releasing his passion into Iain's body.

Iain laughs, and reaches his peak just as consciousness deserts him.

He returns to his senses a few minutes later, lazy and content. Iain finds he's slumped over Eideard, face pressed to the smooth skin at Eideard's neck. Eideard's breathing is loud in his ear, shallow and unalarmed, fingers tracing idle patterns along the length of Iain's back.

It is clear that Eideard does not know that Iain has awakened. Iain resolves to keep it this way.

Sated as he is, it takes no effort to keep his muscle lax, for his breathing to remain even. Eideard's fingers begin to venture northwards, petting him. A hand strokes the hair from Iain's eyes, softly tracing the lines of his face. It is easy to allow himself to drift off for a proper rest.

Hours have passed when he wakes again, light gone from the edges of his shuttered windows. Iain realizes right away that Eideard's soft body no longer pillows him from the scratch and scrape of the blankets. His hand reaches, questing, and finds nothing. Worse, the bed is cold.

With a sigh, Iain rolls onto his back and blinks into the dark. Eideard, the coward, has absconded. Iain raises onto his elbow and rubs at his face, wondering what it is that's awoken him after so many hours of likely abandonment.

A twig snaps, somewhere out in the trees. A feeling of dread pools in Iain's stomach. Another noise, near the front of the cottage. It is the heavy downtrod of men unused to such wild terrain. Englishmen. Iain wonders if they've sent Captain for him, or just their dogs. Regardless, he resolves to give them a show.

He pulls back the covers, exposing his nakedness to the air, and ensures there is a smile on his face as his door is kicked open, a slew of men pouring into his home. "Took your time, didn't you?" he calls, pulling up a knee on which to rest his elbow. The youngest of the men look away, eyes turning to the ceiling, or off to the side at the wall. "Well, let’s get on with it."

The group they've sent to collect him must be newly arrived; they allow time for him to step into his boots, handing him his plaid to belt before they drag him out. One of them gives pause when they see the pattern by the light of their lanterns. "Pay no heed, lad," his superior calls. "A lesser son, with no sway."

In the end, it is the only kindness he is shown. He is bound to the back of a horse, and from there forced to march until they reach their fort recently established. A line of gibbets decorate the front, an eerie border between it and the rest of the English settlement.

He is deposited in a cell without interrogation. After a time, the jailers come. They too ask no questions, and instead set upon him, kicking and hammering with their clubs.

Iain controls himself, does not rise to their provocations, refuses to give any semblance of reaction for which they might feel satisfied.

Well, of a sort.

When his back begins to ache he uses his dwindling strength to push from the floor, exposing his belly to them. His great plaid has fallen open, and the encroaching dawn affords enough light to drip into the cell’s high-posted window so that Iain's erection is clear for all to see.

He can taste the blood staining his teeth as he grins at the shame-ridden disgust that flashes across his jailer’s faces. "Please," he says, nodding down at himself, "keep going. I'm not far from reaching my end."

They leave him. He takes care to laugh long and loud at their retreating backs, the sound of it echoing down the hallway.

It has been hours since he last ate, and he hasn't the strength much to move. He stays on his back, laying on the freezing stone floor, and waits.

"How do you get yourself into these situations, I wonder?"

Iain's eyes flick to the window and see nothing but the bars and dusky lavender of a sky about to dawn. Eideard, the bastard, isn't tall enough to be visible from Iain’s position. "Funny," Iain calls, setting to the laborious task of rising. "I've begun to ask myself the same thing."

"I've been summoned to serve as witness to your abominable behaviour," Eideard continues. "Seems that someone reported you as my abductor."

He reaches the window and has no trouble glancing down into Eideard's upturned face. "Odd, for you seem to be unharmed, and able to be summoned at all. Who was it, you said, that reported me? And for what crime?"

Eideard sniffs. "I did not say."

Indeed, he did not.

"You look —"

"Aye, my lord," Iain rests his head on the bars of the window, "how do I look?

"Feral. Terrible." Eideard bites his lip. "Your fair hair, stained with blood. Matted. Have they given you water, I wonder? Or food? I don't expect there is a cot to be found in that cell of yours?"

"There is no kindness to be found in these walls for the likes of me," Iain says. "Or outside of it, by my estimation."

"Is that what you think?" Eideard's hand comes up, but he halts it, awkwardly placing it near the top of his chest, where his jabot has been reinstalled. The whole of his civilized facade rebuilt, not a hair out of place. "I could make this so much easier for you. Perhaps if you showed remorse?"

They have reached the heart of the matter, then. "Remorse," Iain echos, shaking his head. "For absconding you from your wedding, I presume? And for gracing upon you the fuck of your life. Although, sir, if you would be so kind, is my apology directed to this afternoon, or indeed inclusive of the nights prior, in our years of acquaintance? And on that matter, am I to show remorse for having read the note you had delivered, where you so graciously informed me you were to be married in a few hours time, with implication that I must hurry forth should I have any opinions as to the issue of your arrangement?"

"Yes," Eideard's voice is clipped, face ruddy with anger. "Precisely for all that, you are quite correct. Beg me for your life, and I will consider if it is within my grace to see you freed."

Spiteful man. Though, Iain knows himself to be little better. "And if I refuse?"

Eideard blinks, surprised. "You would die?"

"Would you expect me to suffer through life knowing I begged to keep it?"

"You are mad."

Iain has been labelled worse. "You will do what you must, my lord," he says, feeling the fight leave him, his injuries making themselves known. He slides down the wall, resting his elbows on his knees. "As will I. Sola virtus nobilitat."

He is released after the sun has set the following night. Two men drag him out near the gibbets and leave him there to sit in the mud. Iain finds himself squinting at the stars in the sky, hoping for rain so that he might wet his mouth.

A lone carriage journeys along the road leading to the fort, stopping where Iain has been deposited. The door opens, and of course inside of it sits Eideard.

"I've changed my mind," he calls. "You will die when I am through with you; I no longer hold interest in entertaining your opinions on the matter, nor in humouring your pride."

Must be real. Iain's imagination is not so creative as to come up with the ridiculous justifications Eideard so effortlessly pulls from the air to explain himself.

He uses the last of his strength to heave himself to stand, stumbling into the coach. Eideard closes the door and bangs his cane on the wall at Iain's back; the coachman drives the horses into motion, and the cabin begins to rock as they advance. Iain hisses at the motion, eyes pinching shut as his injuries are jostled.

"What did I just say?" Something heavy is dropped to Iain's lap. "Do pull yourself together."

Iain drinks greedily the water that has been given. Eideard feeds him dried meat once he has drained the canteen, staring with a detached look. "I hate to be the one to tell you this," he says, sounding far from it, "But it appears that cottage of yours was taken by fire."

He waits until he has finished chewing to answer. "Just a place to sleep."

"That is true." Eideard moves the curtain from the window, glancing out at something. It is so dark, and they are so far from the city, that Iain cannot imagine what it is Eideard is hoping to see. "A man such as yourself is able to sleep anywhere, I gather."

Even exhausted as he is, Iain finds cause to smile. His boots have loosened throughout the course of his suffering, and it is easy to pull a foot free. He extends his leg into the space between Eideard and he, pressing his sole to Eideard's lap. "Come now," he calls, slouching back into his seat, "don't be sore."

Eideard's hands come to cradle Iain's foot. "Who says that I am?" Iain can feel the length of Eideard thickening inside his trousers, recognizing the hazy look making itself home in Eideard's gaze.

Iain frees his other foot from its boot and raises it to join its brother in Eideard's lap. "Tell me," he asks, "what happened to that bride of yours?" Strong thumbs press into the bottom of his feet, a blissful agony that has Iain sucking in a shuddering breath.

"It's quite traumatic, you know, being ransomed. Abducted, from my own wedding!" Eideard spreads his thighs wider as he speaks, holding Iain's feet flush to his groin. "One could not be blamed for seeing it as an omen, and that is of course without calling question to how it is that the time and location of our union came to be known to such a villain, when my father went to such pains for it to be a secret, so much so that I myself was informed only the morning itself.”

"That is quite an amount of circumstance for so new a relationship." Iain is too tired to rise in the manner that Eideard has, but fed and watered as he is, he is of a mood to lend his body in aid for Eideard to reach his end. He presses his feet more firmly to the shape of Eideard's cock, flexing his toes.

Eideard bares his teeth to him, more grimace than smile, as his hips roll, humping himself against them. "So questionable that even my father found cause to suspect such implication." He licks his lips and stills, closing his eyes and drawing in a deep breath. Calming himself. His eyes open, and meet Iain's. "And when I shared that a lesser son of a noble clan heard tale of an attack against me, and felt compelled to aid, despite his storied past, who thus rescued me from such plot before the hired villain — unknown to us, mind, and thus a threat still — could set upon the ceremony as planned, what was he to do but offer a position of service in gratitude to such a man?"

Were it that Iain did not know Eideard as well as he does, it would sound fantastical.

He shakes his head, letting forth a huff of amusement. "There is no tongue more gilded within this nation." Iain nods down to his feet, amused. "Do feel free to use me as you desire."

Stolid expression adorning his face, Iain isn't surprised to find Eideard's tone having gone similarly lofty. "I am happy to wait," he says. His fingers pet the top of Iain's right foot, tracing the veins. "I would see you fit, with your fight returned, and then we shall readdress the matter."

Iain would not expect less.


End file.
